


What Do You Want?

by coveredbyroses



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Sex, Blood, Dubious Consent, F/M, Glowy Come, Obsession, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Violence, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-08-03 02:17:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16317254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredbyroses/pseuds/coveredbyroses
Summary: Dean’s been gone for weeks now, abducted by the angel he let inside...





	1. Part 1

The night air is balmy, still thick from the afternoon’s rain. You tuck your fresh purchase of whiskey under your arm, the crackle of the brown paper bag loud against the dark quiet. **  
**

Dean’s been gone for weeks now, abducted by the angel he let inside, and Sam’s rapidly losing hope. You’re barely hanging on yourself, depending more and more on the amber liquid that keeps you company night after exhausting night.

You wonder if Dean’s alive in there; trapped in his own mind, buried under tons of burning grace. Or maybe he’s dead already, and Michael’s traveling the world wearing the corpse of the man you were too chickenshit to confess your feelings to.

Yellow street lights reflect off the puddles collected on the sidewalk as you amble down the long strip of wet concrete. You’re just about to round the corner when a male figure suddenly steps up to the curb. You freeze; adrenaline flooding your veins at the abrupt proximity of the stranger. You chance a glance, eyes nervously flicking up and to the side - he’s silhouetted above the waist, darkness shrouding where the dull lights don’t reach. He’s tall; not as tall as Sam, but maybe as tall as…

An icy web spreads over your scalp, flickers down your spine.

No. It  _can’t_  be-

His voice cuts through the damp air, smooth and dulcet, and fresh fear settles in your belly at the realization that he’s saying your name. You twist until you’re facing him, and then he takes another step, shadows slipping off his towering frame until you can see his face-

_“Michael,”_  you breathe, your voice a thready whisper. Your gut twists at the sight of him, of Dean’s body clad in a full suit (circa 1920’s), complete with overcoat and tweed newsboy cap.

He smiles; slow and dark, and it’s enough to send you sprinting, the whiskey forgotten as it crashes in an explosion of broken glass as you race down the cemented path. You run until your muscles scream and lungs burn, finally skidding into an alley when your knees threaten to buckle.

You flatten yourself against the dewy brick, tip your head back and close your eyes as you pant into the humid air.

“I only want to have a little chat.”

Your eyes pop open at the sound of the low, off-kilter voice. He’s maybe four feet in front of you, stands square-shouldered and relaxed, arms hanging loose at his sides. He tilts his head.

“You’re afraid of me.” It’s just a statement; simple and true.

“Of course I am,” you say; breathless, chest still heaving.

He levels his head and smiles again, and it’s just so  _wrong_  on Dean’s face. He takes a slow step toward you, grin dying with the movement. “I just want to ask you a question,” he says, and you swallow. Another step. “What…” A sweep of dark eyes over the length of your body. “Do…” Another step. “You…” He stills. “…Want?”

He’s close enough that you can smell him; something a little earthy, something  _crisp_. “Tell me,” he says, voice like crushed velvet.

You heart still pounds against your chest even though your breathing has slowed. “I…” you start, dumbly blinking at the stranger before you. “I just want Dean back…Please.” You sound so wounded, so broken.

He closes the gap then, crowds in until you can feel the heat of him bleeding into you. He skims a hand up over your shoulder, curls his fingers around the back of your neck. “Oh, I know,” he says, dipping his head to catch your gaze. “I have his eyes now, his memories. I know how you  _want_  him.”

Your blood ices at that, and your eyes dart left and right, your fear-fogged brain desperately scanning for your escape.

Michael brings his hand around, fits it just under your chin, finger tips pressing at your jaw. “Now, now,” he says, stolen lips brushing warm against yours. “I can see you, I know you’re telling the truth. And I can give you what you want.”

“No,” you say, your voice strengthening with resolve. “No, stop - please!” He’s got a hand at your hip now, thumb working its way under the hem of your shirt to stroke at your skin. He presses himself against you, slowly crushing you into the brick

“Shh…” He moves the hand at your jaw to sweep your hair back off your neck. “You miss him,” he breathes, hot against your mouth. “I can make it  _better_.”

You get your palms on his suited shoulders, push  _hard_ , but he’s solid and unmoving, sturdy as the wall behind you. The hand at your hip slips to your belly, fingers sliding down to dip under your denim waistband.

Your stomach hardens at his boldness, breath catches at the base of your throat as he works your jeans open. You push yourself farther back against the wall, like you can somehow sink through the brick and disappear. He pivots his hand, palm-up, dips it into the open V, fingers rubbing firm over your cotton-covered folds.

You’re absolutely  _petrified_  at being touched like this, but your body doesn’t know any better, and god, he feels just like you always imagined Dean would…

Michael hums as he swipes at you, gets his free hand loose around your throat.

It’s so fucked, all of this is just so  _fucked_ , but you’re still slicking up hot for him.

“So…pretty,” the archangel says, thumbing your jawline. “I can understand Dean’s interest in you. I can  _feel_  it.”

_Dean’s_  interest?

“Please,” you faintly whisper, eyes wide and pleading.

But then Michael’s working his hand into your panties, skin-on-skin, and it sends liquid fire  _hurtling_  through every vein. Your belly clenches when his fingertips find your entrance, find the wetness gathered there. You look away when his face lights, borrowed eyes widening in unabashed delight at your arousal.

You screw your eyes shut as your jaw drops in surprised pleasure when he dips two fingers into your slick heat, pushes _up-up-up_  until his palm cradles up against your clit. Your eyes snap open and you moan, literally moan when Michael starts to pump his fingers. It’s slow at first - kind of a testing, sliding push-and-drag up into you, but then goes faster and faster with every broken breath that punches from your chest. He crooks his fingers then, and you dimly wonder how he even knew to do it, but then all logic evaporates into nothing when he starts to pick up the pace, fingers plunging deep; searching.

“You see,” Michael rasps, eyes dark and mossy. He leans in a little, seals the rough heel of his palm over your pulsing clit. “ _Your_  want is honest, it’s  _pure_.”  

Your own hands are still at his shoulders, palms pressed and fingers curled into the thick fabric of his coat, unsure if you still want to push him away or anchor yourself to his heavy mass.

“Why?” you choke, voice hoarse from fear and exertion. “Why are you doing this? What do  _you_  want?”

Michael stills his fingers, slips them from your heat to run them along your dropped bottom lip, smearing your arousal along the soft pillow of it. “I’m an angel,” he says, like you don’t know, keeps swiping his wet finger across your lip. “I’ve come to better your world, I’ve come to  _help_  you.” His mouth twists in a stomach-turning smirk. “But I only help those who  _deserve_.” He curves the hand at your throat to the back of your neck, strokes his thumb over your cheek. “And you deserve. I can  _see_  it.”

Your pulse thunders in your ears as he speaks, stomach seizes in true terror at his words. Michael drops his hand from your mouth, skims his fingers down your chin, drags them warm down your throat, continues its trek down your chest to finally close around your breast. He dips his head, slants his lips against yours and licks into your mouth. You whimper against him, try to ignore the sizzling heat thrumming inside you.

Try not to wrap your arms around his neck to crush him against you.

He pulls away, leaving you blank and dizzy as he runs his tongue over Dean’s full lower lip. “Oh yes,” he says. “I can  _taste_  it.”

He blinks, and then forest green irises disappear under an icy blue glow. You swallow as you you lock your own eyes on his angelic stare, and you don’t dare make a move when Michael retrieves a knife, smirks with green-again eyes as he twirls it over his fingers, then brings it to the apex of your gaping jeans. You suck in a sharp breath, bring your hands back so fast that your knuckles smack painfully against the brick wall when he gets the sharp edge against the denim, rips through the thick material like he’s slicing through butter. He swiftly pockets the blade, fists the shredded remains of your pants and  _rips_  them clean to the seat of them, does the same to your panties until you’re bare and exposed between the thighs.

He thumbs a line down the seam of your folds, swirls it through the slick still pooled at your entrance, and fuck, just the feather-light touch has you trembling, has you  _burning_.

Michael stoops a little with the height difference, lifts your thighs to wrap them around his hips. You gasp when his knuckles brush against you as he works his slacks open, and you can’t help but glance down as he eases his cock -  _Dean’s_  cock - free. It’s dark out, but a dim sliver of a nearby street light lets you see the delicious thickness of the shaft, the ruddy flush of the head. He pumps himself once, twice, and then he’s lining up-

One sharp inhale later and he’s pushing in, slowly impaling you, stretching you wide. Your hands find purchase on his shoulders again, thighs twitching as you take him in. His fingers are tight as he keeps you locked around him, his eyes piercing as they hook onto yours.

This is bad. It’s so fucking  _bad_ , but it feels so good to be stuffed so full, feels even better when he starts to rock into you.

“Oh god,” you breathe, tip your head further back against the wall behind you as Michael fucks you into it. The archangel snaps his hips in a hard thrust-

“Not my name,” he rumbles, warning clear in his voice. You nod, shift your legs a little around the softness of his coat, pull your heels against the small of his back, try to draw more of him in.

He stills, jams his hand up under your jaw. “Say my name,” he orders, voice like steel. “Say it like a  _prayer_.”

You struggle to find your voice, you’re so shaky with buzzing pleasure. “Michael…” you murmur.

His mouth twitches in an almost-smirk, satisfied with your compliance, and then starts to pump his hips again; faster,  _deeper_  than before-

“Louder,” he grits, fingertips denting into the soft of your cheeks.

“Michael-” you say; louder, but clipped when the angel gives you a particularly hard thrust.

“ _Louder_.” His voice is dangerously low, his grip aching against your jaw.

“Michael!” you shout, your voice bouncing off the wet bricks of the narrow alley.

“There we go.”

And then he  _really_  starts to move, lets you feel the angelic power curled deep inside Dean Winchester’s muscled body as he harshly fucks into you. His hand drops from your jaw, finds its place back at your thigh.

Your knuckles go painfully tight at his shoulders, bricks rough; abrasive through the thin cotton of your t-shirt as he wildly pistons in and out of you. He drives you higher and higher with every brutal shove, and you’re dimly aware that anybody could walk by and see you; hear your broken moans as you’re ravished up against a dirty wall - and they’d have no idea that it’s a damned  _angel_  that’s fucking you so good.

“Fuck!” you choke, eyes welded shut, muscles tensing as your climax looms closer and closer. “Michael - oh god -  _please!”_

He pulls at your thighs,  _slams_  you down against his rolling hips, so  _deep_ -

“Look at me.”

Your lids are heavy, eyes rolling back with the exquisite pleasure of it all, but you obey, lock your eyes onto his. He smiles lazy; dark, then lets the unnatural blue of his grace peer through Dean’s eyes once again-

And then you’re  _clamping_ , writhing on his still-jerking length as your orgasm washes over you. Michael doesn’t stop, keeps jabbing into your convulsing walls until he goes rigid-still, curls up and gives a deep, strangled grunt as he floods you hot - almost too hot, and you whimper a little at the discomfort. He pulls out then, drops your legs, and your head droops down to find thick, glowing-white trails snaking down your thighs.

Michael takes a step back to tuck himself away, smooths his hands over his rumpled suit. You look down at your own mess of attire, at the ruins of your jeans and panties, and think of how the  _hell_  you’re going to make it home like this.

“Oh yes,” the archangel says, smiling dark. “You’re  _definitely_  worth saving.”


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a week since that night in the alley, and you can’t seem to get the Archangel out of your head.

It’s been one week since you’d come stumbling into the bunker, exhausted and aching between the legs.

One week since the dreams started; dreams of strong arms and burning eyes. You haven’t told a soul, not even Sam, the events of that night in the alley. You’d thought about it, thought at  _least_  about telling him about the visions that plagued you at night - only they didn’t. You couldn’t tell Sam you were having nightmares about the Archangel that had stolen his brother, couldn’t tell him because they weren’t nightmares at all.

The abrasive truth of it was that those dreams brought you a warm escape from the suffocating bustle of the bunker; you couldn’t turn one corner without seeing an unfamiliar face - strangers in your home.

At first you thought the comfort came from seeing Dean’s face every night; it was  _familiar._

It was Dean.

But it wasn’t Dean, and you knew it. It may have been his face, his features, but it wasn’t him.

You’d always been drawn to danger, to darkness. Hell, it was the main reason you’d become a hunter in the first place - but you’d never  _longed_  for any of the creatures you hunted.

It wasn’t just the dreams either. Michael stayed on your mind daily, heat rising to your cheeks every time Sam muttered his name. Discussions of reconnaissance excited you in a way it most certainly should  _not_  have, and you’d gotten a look from Sam the one and only time you’d suggested embarking on a lone mission.

Every plan fell through as every lead dissipated into nothing. And every time it was a crushing blow to  _not_  be able see the very literal man of your dreams.

You’d even taken to  _praying_  to the Archangel. They started short, just brief little whispers begging to see him again. But as the days went on, and the stress thickened, the prayers grew longer - and more frequent. You’d find yourself telling him about your day, about the headaches of living in a bunker full of strangers. You’d ask him for his whereabouts, to send you a sign that he was even listening…

And then you’d tell him how much you missed  _him,_ how you missed the tingling burn of his hands on you, missed his warm breath against your lips.

Touching yourself at night was nothing new, it’s always been a nightly ritual; some people drink or take pills - you orgasmed yourself to sleep.

But you stopped after the third night, after the third painful climax since the Archangel had made you feel so  _good_. Each time it felt like your nerves had been set alight in the worst possible way, felt like acid flooding your veins every time the dam broke.

So you stopped all together.

But the throbbing slick between your thighs was constant, and you always felt too hot, pulse thumping a little too fast. You  _needed_  to come like you’ve never needed anything else in your life.

So here you are, sitting alone at the bar after your third shot of tequila.

“Can I get you another?”

You look up, turn your head, and smile.

He’s handsome enough to get the job done; dark hair and brown eyes. Full lips. Nice smile.

“Yeah,” you breathe, take your bottom lip between your teeth. “I’d like that.”

*****

His hands are rough; hungry as he crowds you into the just-slammed-shut door of the small apartment. You can’t remember his name - Justin, maybe? It doesn’t matter -  you don’t plan on ever seeing the guy again after tonight.

Your nerves buzz at the much-needed contact, and you hum as the stranger’s fingers find the skin under the hem of your shirt. His kisses are sloppy, but his lips are soft, so you eagerly swallow the rapacious little sounds he’s breathing into you.

He gets the button popped on your jeans, slender fingers dipping underneath the elastic of your panties-

“Bedroom-” you gasp; choked. “Now.”

He doesn’t bother with the lights as he guides you down the short hall, and you’re a little thankful for the dark - you’ve no interest in longing gazes - just a quick fuck and you’re out.

You’re clad only in your bra and panties by the time your back bounces against the unmade bed, and he’s working his own pants open as he falls over you.

A sliver of white light from the apartment complex’s parking lot peers in through the blinds, highlighting the man’s cheekbone and bridge of his nose, and if you don’t concentrate too hard you can easily pretend it’s Dean…or maybe-

The thought slips from your mind as fingers brush at the drenched crotch of your panties. He hastily pushes the wet cotton to the side so his fingertips can swirl at the wetness pooled at your entrance. You squirm, buck your hips to try to sink yourself down onto him, and he obliges, smoothly pushing two fingers in to the last knuckles.

You let your hands curl into the pillow behind you as he starts to thrust his fingers, and it feels so fucking  _good._  His thumb presses against your clit, a little too hard and he isn’t moving it at all, but just the steady pressure is enough to quickly pull an orgasm to the surface.

He pulls his hand away, and you curse at the loss as he chuckles. “Goddamn, baby,” the stranger sniggers. “You’re gonna be a good fuck, huh?”

“I am if you get the fuck on with it,” you hiss, earning you yet another huffed laugh from the man.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You moan as he pushes in - he’s a decent size, and it makes for a good stretch, and you can see stars behind your welded eyelids when he bottoms out.

His thrusts are slow at first; testing. And you bring your legs up to lock at his back, then hitch yourself up, fucking back onto him.

“Faster,” you whisper. “And hard.  _Really_  fucking hard.”

He makes a sound, a grunted confirmation, and then shifts on his arms before  _snapping_ his hips instead of rolling, and fucking  _hell_ -

The pleasure is intense enough to literally steal your breath, and everything locks up inside as he roughly fucks into you. The white-hot heat builds steadily, and you’re right fucking  _there_ -

When the feeling dies, your climax fading away like a switch has been flipped. Your body feels like nothing but weight as the man keeps pumping into you, and you can tell his own end is rapidly approaching from the sounds he’s making, and the way his hips start to jerk and stutter.

“Fuck,” he pants. “You on the pill or anything? Shit, I’m gonna-”

And the he stiffens for a brief second before collapsing against you before you can respond, motionless, crushing you into the lumpy mattress.

His cock is still hot and hard inside you, but he isn’t moving.

The hell?

“Hey,” you grunt, tapping at his shoulder. “You okay?’

Silence.

“I’m afraid not,” A familiar, silky voice says from somewhere in the dark of the room. You stretch your neck, peering over the heavy mass still slumped against you-

Your heart somehow quickens and slows all at once at the sight of him, shoulders squared and head leveled.

“Michael…” you whisper. He’s dressed the same as the last time you saw him, tweed cap in perfect place, suit pressed to perfection.

He raises his hand, makes a waving motion, and the lifeless body swiftly leaves you as it  _flings_  against the wall, and drops to the floor with a heavy thud.

You immediately clamor to cover yourself, pulling the pillow out from behind your head to tuck against your front-

“Stop,” Michael says, voice low. “Let me see you.”

Then, with a snap, the room is flooded in warm light, and you have to blink several times to adjust to the sudden brightness.

Michael dips his head toward the pillow still hugged to the front of you, and you swallow as you hesitantly push it to the side.

“Are…are you here to kill me?” you murmur, scooching back against the headboard.

The Archangel cocks his head to the side, narrows green eyes at you. “No,” he says, like it’s the most absurd thing in the world. “You prayed to me…” He takes off the cap, tosses it to the bed. “You’ve  _missed_  me…” He peels off the heavy overcoat and takes a step forward, lets the heavy wool fall neat. You start to tremble when Michael gets both knees up on the foot of the bed, thick fingers moving to unbutton the wrinkless waistcoat.

“I’m here to answer those prayers.”

Your heart pounds from some sick mixture of fear and lust, and you can feel fresh-hot slick gather between your thighs as you watch him undress.

“This is what you wanted, yes?” He asks, smirk etched into his borrowed face. “What you prayed for?”

Your stomach is in knots, heart drumming against your chest. “Y-yes.  _Please._ ”

Bare above the belt, you feel like you’re looking at Dean again. You let your eyes rove over the smooth expanse of his stomach, chest…but when you reach his face, you don’t see  _anything_ resembling your years-long crush.

His lips are still curled in an icy smirk, eyes open too wide as he drinks in your much smaller form. He drapes himself over you, nestling his hips between your thighs as he inches his slacks down over his hips. You can feel his cock, thick and hot against your thigh as he ducks down to brush his lips against yours. You bring your arms up to loop around the back of his neck, pull him down, closing the gap as you meet in a hungry kiss.

Michael’s tongue is hot against yours and he tastes richer than your favorite whiskey. You’re already shaking with need to come and all he’s done is kiss you-

You tear yourself away, gaze up at him; pleading. “Please,” you manage with the faintest whisper. “I need you.”   
  
The Archangel locks his unblinking eyes on yours as he pulls back to ease your panties down and off, then slots himself back against you to align himself with your drenched opening. He rubs the broad tip of his cock up and down, easily gliding through your arousal.

“I don’t even  _have_ to get you ready, hmm? This all from him?”

“No, Sir,” you breathe, the formal title involuntarily rolling off your tongue. “It’s all for you.”

Michael smiles, then hums. Then gets down on his forearms as he sinks into your heat, gaze still hooked on yours.

Your eyes close, jaw drops a little with each exquisite inch-

He’s about halfway inside when a hand jams behind your head, fisting your hair, and  _jerks_ so that your face is tilted to his-

“Eyes open. I want you to see me.”

You obey, let your eyes pop back open to find two glowing topaz crystals burning into you. Icy fear starts to percolate at the reminder of just how powerful the entity really is, but before you have the chance to appropriately react to the growing fear, he  _snaps_  his hips, plunges all the way into you before starting a quick,  _fierce_  rhythm.

You get your hands on his back, fingers splayed, palms flush against the rolling muscles. His thrusts are smooth and perfectly fluid; unfaltering as he spears in deep and splits you wide.

His eyes have faded back to spruce green, and his lips are full and slack, pearly white teeth peeking out from underneath the soft, pink flesh.

He releases your hair, gets his hands deep in the mattress, bracing, and then he goes  _wild_. You slap both hands over your mouth as you start to squeal, in fear of the whole damned complex hearing you as Michael pumps you higher and higher.

You’re vaguely aware of the corpse lying crumpled against the wall, just mere feet from you, and there’s a twinge of revulsion twisting in your gut at the very real horror of your situation…

But you’re spiraling head-first into what you already know is going to be a mind-blowing orgasm, so you shove the trepidation down deep, and tighten your legs around warm, flexing hips. Your veins thrum with electric heat, and sweat dampens your hairline, burgeons over the curve of your upper lip.

Michael’s hot to the touch when you bring your hands to his shoulders, but dry as bone, and you idly come to the conclusion that angels must not perspire, must not have a need to.

He stills then, pulls back to his haunches, cold eyes welded to yours. He gets a firm grip at the bend of your knees, fingertips denting into the skin as he pulls your legs into a wide V. The bedsprings creak underneath the Archangel’s weight as he settles a little closer, his heavy length shifting inside you.

Strong fingers tighten, and then he’s pistoning  _hard and fast_ , and the angle has your eyes rolling back, has your teeth gnashed. Your hands fist at the pillow behind you, and you’re already clenching around him; wet and achingly  _desperate._ He’s plunging heart-stoppingly deep, wide cockhead rasping over and over your g-spot.

You feel the heat before you see the icy glow - and it’s almost as if his gaze is actually  _pulling_  your eyes to his. He’s still pumping steadily into you, but now there’s a warm swirling sensation centered directly on your clit - like a firm stream of warm water; a constant, wet-hot pressure that makes everything inside simmer and liquify.

His grip suddenly goes bruising-tight, and then he’s  _heaving_  your legs up, hooking your heels over smooth shoulders. The depth and angle of his jabbing length makes you see stars, and the invisible heat rolling over your clit starts to pulse in time with his rapid thrusts.

 _“Please-please-please-please!”_ You chant, voice high and strangled-

You’re openly sobbing in both pleasure and  _relief_  when you finally come, jerking and fluttering around him as he fucks you through it, the incessant push and drag prolonging the burning high rippling over you.

You can feel the thick swell of his cock as he thrusts his way toward his own, and you’re still keening, begging for him to  _please, please_  come inside-

He  _shoves_  in all the way, and stills, muscled thighs taut as he throws his head back to growl at the ceiling. You whimper as he twitches and pulses, flooding your belly with tingling, grace-laden heat.

Michael lets out a heavy sigh as he comes down, runs his heavy hands down the smooth lengths of your thighs. He releases you after a beat, lets your legs fall to his sides as he pulls out, and your pussy twitches as the excess of his climax dribbles over your swollen flesh to pool at the damp sheets.

He falls to your side, muscled legs tangling with yours as he pulls you to his chest. You’re warm and floaty, and unbelievably… _sated_.

“I love you,” a voice says. And it takes you a long moment before you realize that it’s yours.

Michael hums, then runs a wide-fingered hand along the dip of your waist.

You rise, hot tears building at the brim of your eyes with sudden emotion. “I mean it, Michael,” you say, smoothing a hand over his cheek. “I’d - I’d do  _anything_  for you.”

The Archangel curls Dean’s lips in a cool smirk. “Anything, huh?”

You frantically nod, swallow around the lump swelling in your throat.

“The Archangel blade,” Michael says, voice sure. “I know Sam has it. I want it.”

“It’s yours.”

*****

It’s easy to go unnoticed amidst the bustling bodies ambling about the bunker.  _Cakewalk._

Sam’s hunched over the glow of the map table, long index finger gliding across the surface as he no doubt discusses the next plan of action with the hunters huddled around him. You reach the bedroom wing in seconds, easily slipping into the quiet of Sam’s room.

You shut the door with a click, eyes dancing around the cluttered space. You’d been standing right here that day, the day Michael had taken control and left. Your mind was still reeling as you watched Sam wrap the ancient blade in an old t-shirt before stuffing it at the back of the drawer.

With a steadying breath, you push off the door, round the foot of the unmade bed to the walnut chest of drawers. The top compartment easily slides out with low whir, and you swiftly dive a hand inside, shoving away heavy folded flannel until you see the familiar roll of gray cotton. Your heart leaps when your hand closes around it, and you quickly pull the fabric loose, let the weapon drop into the cradle of your palm.

You run a finger along the twisted steel, chest tightening at the thought of just how  _proud_  Michael will be when he sees it, when he sees the product of your devotion. You quickly slip the blade into the leather sleeve of your jacket and head back to the noise of the bunker.

*****

You’ve made it out the fortress’ entrance, and up the rain-damp cement steps to where your car sits on the edge of the old road. You go to wrench the door open when a hand wraps around your arm.

“What do you think you’re doing?”  

Mary.

You let out an exasperated sigh, and turn around to face the resurrected Winchester.

“I just need to get away. It’s…I’m suffocating.”

Mary’s eyes drop. “What’s in your sleeve?”

“Nothing.”

It all happens in a flash. Mary pushes away from you, and then the pistol is cocked and leveled at your face.

You don’t feel truly present when you let the blade drop to your fist, fingers slotting between the grooves of the leather handle. Mary’s eyes widen just before you plunge the steel into her heart. The penetration gives off a wet squelch as it tears into flesh and muscle, and the gun falls to the the mud with a loud thump as the blonde sinks to her knees. You ease her down, eyes falling to the blood dribbling over the curve of her lower lip.

“Shh…it’s okay,” you whisper. “It’s time to go back home.” You smile at her, tuck her hair behind her ear as the cool mud soaks the knees of your jeans. And when the life has left her eyes, you let her slump to the wet earth.

*****

 

Your heart pounds as your knuckles rasp over the smooth red paint of the motel door. You comb rust-splotched fingers through your hair in a hasty effort to make yourself presentable-

The door swings open, Michael’s towering frame blocking the view into the dark room. Lake-green eyes flit over you, lax lips curving into a frown as he catches the dried blood splattering the front of your shirt.

“I…I had to,” you stammer, panicked. “Mary - she got in the way - she was trying to keep us apart!” You pull the red-crusted blade from your back pocket. “Please, Michael…I love you.”

Michael smiles.


End file.
